The Final Night
by Thescarredman
Summary: What do you do on the last night before the Fleet sets sail for the Seven Kingdoms? Chapter Three: Tyrion Lannister is an excellent judge of character - except when he isn't.
1. Chapter 1

A small group of black-clad warriors moved among the narrow twilit lanes of Meereen's upper-class pleasure district, high on the slopes overlooking the harbor. In the sky behind them, the Great Pyramid glowed with the golden rays of the setting sun; likewise, the top halves of the two- and three-story buildings lining the street. But down at ground level, all was in shadow, and their clothing made them difficult to see in the growing darkness.

Two of the three wore black armor of boiled leather with the kraken sigil of the Ironborn embossed on their chests; their pale complexions marked them as Westerosi, and their walk as sailors – or at least, as folk just come to land after a long sea voyage. The third, dark of skin and close-trimmed, was dressed in a manner common to Unsullied when off duty; he marched beside them, eyes never still, seeming more a guard than a companion.

The group turned a corner, and the alley widened enough to permit a row of market stalls along one side. The merchandise, coiffed and perfumed and immodestly attired, smiled at the travelers and offered pleasant suggestions. Theon Greyjoy avoided their eyes and shrugged uncomfortably, as if settling a heavy pack at the start of a long journey. "I don't see why I have to be a part of this."

"Because it's a gesture of hospitality to both of us from our new ally," said his sister, eying a girl nearly falling out of her golden tunic as she leaned over. A sailor stepped between Yara and the girl and grasped her wrist, leading her away; immediately after, a group of similarly-dressed men invaded the market, and a moment later the stalls were empty. They went on. "You remember her, don't you? The one with the pretty eyes and the pert little arse and hair like corn silk – and eighty thousand troops, a thousand ships, and a flock of dragons big enough to swallow a man whole? The little queen half the lubbers in Slaver's Bay worship on their knees?"

She glanced at the Unsullied guiding them, but he gave no sign of having understood ; the only time they had heard him speak, he had been instructing a palace guard - in Valerian, not Common.

She went on, "Meereen is one of the most famous fleshpots in the known world. Tomorrow, we sail for Westeros on the morning wind. We'll probably never see this place again. Am I going to have to listen to you complain all night?"

"Well, what am I supposed to _do_?"

"Drink in the parlor. Watch other people having fun. Chat up a girl, if you can find one who speaks proper language. You don't have to go into a back room with her and start crying over your lost cock." She went on, "Sorry. But you heard the Dragon Queen say she already arranged for this outing. I understand you not wanting to bring up your little problem in her throne room, but you can't refuse now."

Grey Worm spoke, startling them. "The owner of the Garden of Joy also owns several other brothels," he said in accented Common. "One of them caters to Unsullied. If you have no objection to spending the evening apart, your brother might be more comfortable there."

Theon felt the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth at Yara's expression. He was reminded of his return to Pyke, when his long-parted sister had met him at the dock, and he hadn't recognized her, instead mistaking her for a servant. They had ridden double back to the castle, and she had endured his groping hands the whole way, just for the pleasure of revealing herself to him in front of their father.

Yara recovered quickly, and went on the offensive. "How in the name of all the false gods does an Unsullied get 'comfortable' in a brothel?"

"There is more to a man than his stem," said the captain of the Unsullied. "And more to a woman than something to grip it."

"Sounds like you go there pretty often," Yara said.

"No," he replied. "Never. But I understand their need."

The street ended at a closed double door set into a ten-foot wall. Over its top could be seen the roof of a large house. The men guarding the gate stepped aside and pulled the doors wide at their approach.

The path on the other side led through a garden to the house. Yara eyed the ornamental plantings and statuary. "Fancy. Hope the beer's good."

At the door, a sumptuously dressed older woman greeted them in Valerian, and Grey Worm replied in the same language. The madam guided them into a parlor rich with fine fabrics and furnishings. She nodded at him, then looked Yara over with a little smile, making a low sound in her throat. In accented Common Tongue she said, "Welcome to the Garden of Joy. What is your pleasure, my lady? We have a new boy, a beautiful Dothraki, tall and dark-eyed and muscled like a god. Fully trained, though not entirely broken in, and a _stallion,_ if you-"

"Let's have a look at your bitches," Yara said. "Do you have anything to drink here?"

The woman smiled wider. "Anything you have ever experienced or might want to, from Summer Isles white to fermented mare's milk." She gestured for Yara to follow her. "The hostesses come from all over the world as well, my lady, and some practice … unusual disciplines. In all modesty, I say that you may have difficulty choosing just one."

"Then maybe I won't. Lead on." Yara took a step to follow the madam, then said over her shoulder, "Stay out of trouble, Theon. And try to enjoy yourself. I'm not going to think about you the rest of the night."

Grey Worm and Theon exited the way they came, but then the soldier led his companion in a different direction, heading down the long slope that ended at the harbor. The farther down they went, the less tidy and pretty things were. The first thing Theon noticed was the faint smell of burnt things in the air. Shortly after, he observed bits of stonework strewn in the street, and scorch marks on the façades of the occasional building. Before long, the rubble piles shoveled against the walls grew larger and more frequent, with damaged structures outnumbering sound ones. The smell of burning pitch was stronger, and mixed in with it another smell, sharp and metallic, that stung the eyes: the smell of the harbor when the Ironborn fleet had arrived, cruising past charred masts sticking up out of the water.

"Dragonfire," said Grey Worm. "This is where the Masters' bombardment was heaviest, and where she ended it." They turned, in the direction of the Great Pyramid. "A bit farther. The Warrior's Rest is almost in the shadow of the Pyramid. We keep our comforts close to our duties."

Theon marched beside the Unsullied in uneasy silence, gathering his courage. He studied the stoic man's measured step, his straight back, his seeming self-assurance and confidence. Finally, when they turned the last corner and another guarded gate appeared at the end of a long straight alley, he said, "It's true then? About all of you? That you were…"

"Yes."

Theon swallowed. "What, what was it like for you?"

The soldier hesitated between one step and the next. "I don't remember it well. I was a boy. I don't think I fully understood what was going to happen. My whole training group had it done at the same time. I do remember standing in line outside the infirmary, waiting my turn. I was called in, bound to a table, and the medicus tied off my parts with string. His knife was sharp. The most painful part was when he cauterized the wounds." He walked beside Theon, looking straight ahead for once. "And you?"

"Different." He found himself shivering.

Grey Worm halted, and Theon stopped as well, hunching over like an old man while the memories flooded in. "They held me down. He let me get a good look at the knife first. It was huge, and hooked, as if it was made more for tearing than cutting. Then he told me what he was going to do, what I would lose forever. He took his time. He liked hearing me beg before he started, and hearing me scream when he went to work. I remember hoping I might bleed to death, but they bound me up and tied me to that frame while I healed, and every day he would come down to taunt me. I…" He looked to the end of the street, and the guarded doorway. "I can't. I can't do anything in there."

The soldier regarded Theon for a long moment. Finally he said, "Not everything he took from you is beyond your power to take back. A year ago, I had nothing I could call mine – not even my body or my name. Freedom begins when you have a chance to be something more than what others have made of you, and you take it."

Grey Worm turned and marched toward the door; a moment later, Theon followed.

The area just inside the gates of the Warrior's Rest held no greenery, just an awning-shaded courtyard with stone benches around a small fountain. But the air was freshened and cooled by the moisture in the air, and the sound of the falling water soothed. An Unsullied lay full upon one of the benches, his head in the lap of a lovely but plainly-dressed girl; he started to rise at their approach, but Grey Worm gestured him back down, and they walked on to the brothel's door.

The greeting area of the house was considerably simpler than the one at the Garden. The fabrics hanging from the walls were plain and thick, but well-woven, as were the carpets; their footfalls disappeared as soon as they entered. A wide wooden stair led up to the second floor, and on it Theon could see an Unsullied and a prostitute ascending hand in hand.

The madam was less ornate as well, and more businesslike. She spoke gravely with Grey Worm in Valerian, the exchange going back and forth several times before she turned to Theon. "Pardon, my lord," she said in clear Common Tongue, "but we are in somewhat of a bind. Every off-duty Unsullied and sailor in Meereen is looking for company tonight. In the houses on the heights that serve the nobles and the wealthy, there are no shortages, but here we are hard pressed. Every prostitute and entertainer in the Lower Quarter has been called into service. Even former slaves who rejoice that they no longer must part their legs for their masters have come into the streets to offer themselves in farewell to the Mother's men. But still the numbers are scarcely enough, and selection is thin."

Theon felt the knot in his belly loosen, even as a strange heaviness squeezed his eyes and chest. "I understand. You don't have anyone. You weren't expecting us, and-"

" _No._ " She sawed her hand sideways. "My lord, you are a guest and ally of the Mother of Dragons. Any Unsullied would give up his evening of pleasure to provide such a one his choice of companions."

Theon glanced at Grey Worm; the captain's stern and unmoving face told him the woman was telling the exact truth. He said to her, "I don't want anyone to do that." _Any of them deserves it more than I_ , he thought. _I, who have cast aside everything of worth that was ever offered me, reaching for what I could never have._

The woman opened her mouth and paused, as if deciding what to say, then went on, "We have one girl tonight, who is … unattached. She usually earns her keep in the kitchen or laundry, but she has been known to take clients from time to time. She's no great beauty, but she is presentable enough, and is experienced in the wants of … men like the Unsullied. And she is Westerosi, so you can talk to her if you like." She added, "Some men do."

 _A gift from our new ally,_ Yara's voice echoed in his mind. _You can't refuse now._ "If, if she is willing."

"Of course," the madam said. "There are no slaves in Meereen." She took a step backward and gestured to another girl. "There will be a short wait while preparations are made. Please take refreshment. Silla will bring you anything we have."

Silla was a cool beauty, dark of eye and hair, her clear skin the color of sand. "We have a selection of wine and ale," she said to the two men. "Beer as well. Nothing fancy, but pleasant enough on the tongue."

"Water," said Grey Worm.

She nodded, as if expecting his reply. "And you, my lord?"

Theon was tempted to ask for wine; perhaps this humiliation would be easier if he was drunk. "Water as well."

She disappeared and returned almost immediately with a pitcher and cups, all plain brown glazeware. As she poured into the cup in his hand, Theon said, "Do you only work in the kitchen too?"

She smiled. "My man will be coming later, when he is released from duty." She flicked a glance at Theon from under her lashes. "Madam Buvai would have offered me to you, my lord, to entertain you until his arrival, but she knows men like the Unsullied require more than an hour of a woman's attention." She turned to fill the captain's cup and said, a little wistfully, "Our time together will be short enough. Before dawn, all the Queen's heroes and fighting men will board the ships, and after that we will have only traders and shopkeepers to entertain."

"The Second Sons will remain in Meereen to keep the Queen's peace," Grey Worm observed.

"The Second Sons are lousy tippers," the girl replied. "Unless they're very drunk, and then when they wake they accuse us of stealing." She met the captain's eyes. "How often have the Unsullied come to a place like this to drag out a Second Son, roaring like a gored bull and making threats? What sort of peace do you suppose such men will keep?"

"There will be no one else," he said. "Sometimes, when a man is forced to assume a position of responsibility, he grows into the job. The captain of the Second Sons is intelligent and capable, and he will do whatever the Queen bids him."

The girl made a tiny sound and flicked her lashes. "I'm sure you're right." When Grey Worm's face turned stony, she smiled.

Theon sipped his water, wondering about the undercurrents of their exchange. His time with Ramsey had made him very sensitive to the moods and thoughts underlying a person's words. These two knew something about the mercenary captain, or perhaps their queen, that they would not discuss in front of an outsider. He took another nervous sip…

And noticed the faint odd tang in the water.

Alarmed, he reached for the cup at Grey Worm's lips and covered it. "Don't drink any more! There's something in it!"

"Yes," said Grey Worm, scowling. "Vinegar." He took another swallow.

"Just a touch," Silla said. "It's how the Unsullied prefer."

"It cuts phlegm on a dusty march, and aids digestion," the captain said. He finished his cup and set it down beside the pitcher.

The girl regarded Theon carefully. "Did I err, pouring your drink from the same pitcher? Would you like one of your own?"

"No," he said, feeling a fool. He drained his cup as well, and set it beside Grey Worm's. "I'm sorry."

"I imagine that to men who lead lives surrounded by danger, such caution is natural." But she continued to study him. Theon's embarrassment was washed away by unease. He had been subjected almost daily to acts of treachery and betrayal intended to grind every fiber of independence out of him, and to make trust seem perilous. The girl's solicitousness was too reminiscent of Ramsey's, just before the monster sprang some new torment upon him. What was she really thinking?

The madam returned. "This way, my lord." She led him toward the staircase, but instead of climbing the steps, she entered a door beneath it. Theon followed her down a wide, undecorated passage that bent and jogged and branched until he lost all hope of finding his way back unguided. The doors which lined the way were mostly closed, but some doors were open, and he glimpsed storage rooms, their shelves loaded with clothing or foodstuffs or cookware.

Finally, they passed through a kitchen, warm and fragrant with the smells of meat and bread and spices. The madam veered aside, to a short hallway enclosing half a dozen doors. She continued to the farthest and stopped.

"Here," she said, laying a hand on the latch. "When you're ready, she can show you the way back. If she pleases you well enough to stay the night, you'll have a hot meal from the kitchen before you leave."

"Thank you," he said, not knowing what else to say. His gut tightened again.

"Thank you, my lord, for your understanding." She unlatched the door and opened it a hand's width, then stepped aside. "Pleasant evening."

The girl sat on the side of the bed, dressed in working clothing plain but clean. A serviceable body, he thought, for a man to whom such things still mattered. Her downturned face and dark forward-falling hair mostly hid her features, though: Theon could see only her brow and the bulb at the tip of her nose. A glance at the pegs and shelves holding a number of personal items told him that the room was likely her own, and not normally used for entertaining. A narrow curtain hung on one wall probably hid her privy…

She glanced up at him and froze, and her eyes widened until he could see the whites all around. Surprise? Fear? What had she been expecting, some fine Meereenese lord, or Unsullied noncom? Not the gaunt-looking Westerosi in worn black plate who stood at her door, clearly. What would…

She looked familiar.

He studied her face. It certainly wouldn't frighten children, but would never be called beautiful either - rather mannish, actually. Besides the wide and irregular nose, she had a narrow receding chin, making her lower lip appear to stick out, and lines at the corners of her mouth and nose, despite her youth. If she smiled wide, they would likely turn to long creases rather than dimples…

 _Smile with your lips closed._

 _I would be your salt wife, milord._

"Milli," the girl said. "That's the name you were trying to remember, milord."

-0-

As soon as the madam and the Ironborn disappeared through the doorway, Silla said, "Shall I show you to your room, Captain? Your hostess is already there."

Grey Worm swallowed. "Yes." As they walked to the foot of the staircase, he asked, "Has she been waiting long?"

"She arrived just before you." She lowered her lashes and smiled. "I think she was expecting a longer wait, but I am sure she will be glad to see you so soon."

They ascended the stairs and traveled the length of a long hallway leading toward the rear of the building. At its end was a pair of doors rather more elaborately carved than the ones at the building's entrance. Silla opened one of them, just wide enough for him to pass through. "May the True God bless your evening, and let this night hold not terrors but delight." She closed it firmly behind him.

The room – one of a suite of rooms – was palatial, looking fit for the Queen herself. The sitting area was as large as a barracks, and a doorless opening let onto a balcony, through which the soft lights warming the hillside homes of the rich beckoned. It was also quite empty. Grey Worm thought Silla had been mistaken before he heard the sounds of gentle splashing from another doorway.

The next room was a bath, nearly as large as the sitting room. Its centerpiece was a rectangular pool, about ten paces by five. At its rim, Missandei sat, her sandals off and her feet stirring the water.

-0-

"Will you undress?" Milli's hands reached, tentatively, for the buckle under Theon's arm that held the front and back plates together. "Or would you rather I did it?"

She jerked. Her wrist was tight in Theon's hand; he didn't remember seizing it. He said, "What are you doing here?"

Her eyes lifted from his chest to meet his. "As you see," she said. "Whoring."

He started again. "How did you come to be here?"

Her eyes dropped back down. "My father."

 _My father will punish me. He'll call me a whore._

 _You're not a whore,_ he had said, then added callously, _I never paid you._ He released her wrist, more from shock than decision.

Milli resumed her task, drawing the leather out of its buckle, then turned to the one on the other side. "My father was a proud man, in his way. It didn't sit well with him at all, you fucking his daughter in his own bed. But your position shielded you. He took your money and gave up his cabin because he had no choice, if he wanted safe passage through the Ironborn's waters. But he watched. And when he saw me call to you from the rail, and you turned away without a word and went off with that woman, he knew you were done with his wayward daughter, and he was free to salve his wounded pride. Raise your arms, milord."

Feeling numb, Theon lifted his arms away from his sides. Milli, ignoring the hard-to-adjust shoulder straps in a manner that spoke of practice, lifted the back-and-breast armor over his head and stood it on the floor against the wall. She went on, "With your coin still tight in his fist, he gave me a clout that sent me to the deck. I lay there, too terrified to get up, while he walked around me and ranted. 'Whore' was the least of the things he called me. Every once in a while, he'd give me a kick in the arse or the hip to drive his words home. But he never struck my face, or somewhere that might cripple me – I should have wondered about that, but I was too grateful then to think on it. After a while, it was over, and he turned and walked off. It was the last time he spoke to me. A month later, trade took the ship to Meereen, and here he sold me." Her fingers went to the laces of his britches.

"Don't," he said, turning part away. But he didn't back away, or reach for his armor.

"Do I displease? Will you demand your money back?"

"Stop," he said quietly. "I'm sorry." It seemed so paltry a thing to say, but he didn't know what else to tell her. "I was cruel to you. And a fool."

A dimple lifted the corner of her mouth. "Every whore has a sad story to tell, milord. It's good for a tip sometimes. Truth, being sold was the best thing that could have happened. I live better here than aboard ship, even when its captain still called me his daughter. If he had kept me, I'm sure my father would have killed me by now, or married me to some drunkard seaman." She gestured toward his britches-string, as if for permission to continue.

The words came out low and flat. "You won't find anything down there. Didn't they tell you?"

She hesitated. "Everyone has seen the raiders' fleet lying quiet at anchor in the harbor, and we know what it means. They told me that the Queen herself had bought a night's entertainment for a great Ironborn captain, one who'd been wounded in battle and needed the sort of care one gives an Unsullied. I was honored. I still am." She went on, "How?"

"Not a battle. Betrayed by my own men," he said. "Captured. Tortured. Broken." His mouth kept going. "You were the last woman I was with." _Does that give you some secret pleasure? I hope so._

She sighed and reached for his britches, deftly untying the knotted string that held them tight. But instead of spreading the flaps wide, she pulled his tunic out of them, rucking it up to his ribs. "This first."

He raised his arms high, obedient as a child, and she pulled the garment off and tossed it atop the breastplates.

"You're so thin." Her voice was almost a whisper. She circled him, and touched the scars on his back and shoulders. "Do these pain you?"

"Only when I remember how I got them." Shame rose up, like a wave big enough to swamp a ship and carry its crew away to the depths. _I can't go through with this. Will she smile to see what's left of the heartless cock that used her so badly? Will she pity? Which would be worse?_

Milli took his hand. "To the bed." She sat him on the edge, and began to remove his boots.

-0-

"I was afraid you might not come." Grey Worm held Missandei in his arms, both of them naked and up to their shoulders in the warm pool. Buoyed up and feeling as if he was flying, he moved about slowly as they talked, carrying her effortlessly through the water.

She splashed him. "And I thought we were past all that."

"I meant, I thought it might be hard to leave. That she would need you on this last night."

"She almost pushed me out the door," she said, smiling. "I'm sure she knows. And I think she may have plans of her own."

He paused. "Not Daario."

Missandei shook her head. "No. She doesn't change her mind, not about anything. And I don't think she'll be sharing a bed tonight. But she seemed … pushed. Or drawn, toward something. I can't find a better word."

He scoffed. "You speak more languages than there are stars in the sky, and you can't find a word?"

"Languages are made to share what one knows. No one understands _her_ , not fully."

He nodded, and held her a little more tightly. "The ways of gods are not meant for us to fully understand, I think."

"She's not a god. She's …" Missandei's voice trailed away as she thought.

"Looking for another word?"

"There are ten thousand gods, and none," she said. "She's something else."

Grey Worm lifted her partway out of the water and kissed the spot where her shoulder joined her neck, and she inhaled sharply. "In all my life, she's the nearest thing to a god I've seen. So I'll follow her until a better one comes along."

"Daenerys Stormborn Targaryen. Bride of Fire, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Shackles. Conqueror of Yunkai and Astapor, Queen of Meereen. Beloved Mistress of the Unsullied, Great Khaleesi of the Grass Sea. Queen of the Andals and the First Men, and One True Heir to the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros." She scoffed and dipped a hand in the water, feeling the gentle current of their passage. "She's just a girl. So many ways, she's just a girl. But she is borne through life, and her path laid out before her, by forces beyond all understanding."

-0-

Daario Naharis sat on the crude wooden balcony of a favorite dockside bawdy house, a bottle of Arbor red on the wobbly table in front of him. The view was a premium one, overlooking the full and busy harbor as the sun sank into the horizon. Through the open doorway behind him, he could hear the volume of the merriment inside rising as voices were lubricated by drink and inhibitions washed away.

But out here, he was alone. The balcony was too small for more than a single table, and Daario had appropriated it none too gently, which ensured that no one would come out to try to share it. That was fine with him; he didn't feel like company.

The bottle had sat in front of him unopened for an hour. Daario didn't really feel like drinking or making merry, either, but he hadn't anything better to do, and so old habit had brought him here. He often chose this table, both for the fresh air and for convenience while drinking. He scoffed. _Now I'm the Lord Commander of the City Watch, Protector of Meereen, and High Arbiter of Justice instead of a Tyroshi sellsword, I suppose I should refrain from pissing off balconies._

In the harbor, final preparations were underway. Smaller boats left the docks laden with provisions and supplies and wove among the larger vessels at anchor further out. Workmen hammered and painted, applying the finishing touches necessary to change the slavers' combined fleet into the Dragonqueen's Armada. Lamps were lit against the falling darkness, making it seem as if half the stars in the sky had fallen into the harbor. And far out in the anchorage, a three-master with a golden dragon head at the bow was getting a fancy pavilion erected on the sterncastle. That one would be hers, he supposed. Probably be sailing right out front, where her devoted subjects could see her and take courage for the coming fight.

If he stood and turned toward the door leading inside, he knew, he would be able to see the top of the Great Pyramid over the tavern's roof. He stayed firmly in his seat, looking out to sea. He didn't want to know if the lamps were lit inside her chambers. He didn't want to find himself searching the windows and balcony for a sign of her.

 _She dismissed me like a servant, without even a tear_. _I told her she had to be a butcher to rule, but I never dreamed it would be my heart she was carving on someday._

 _What's it like, loving a woman you know will never love you back?_ Daario scoffed and gripped the neck of his unopened bottle. He had asked that question of Mormont, while the two of them were searching for her after the dragon had borne her away from the fighting pit. He'd been so sure of her then, so sure of his place with her. The question had been intended as a warning to the old man, telling him that he had no chance, that Daario already had her heart.

The old knight had seemed to mull it over, then had said simply, "It's hard." How many answers had he cast aside before choosing that one? He had known Daenerys before she was a queen, possibly when she was still a child in Westeros. He had watched her take her first hesitant steps on the path to the Iron Throne, seen her stride lengthen as her power and confidence waxed. How many stragglers had failed to keep up and been left behind, as she grew from a lost little girl into the Dragon Queen? _Is that why he seemed to choose his words so carefully? Because he knew this day would come for me?_

"Yes," he murmured. "It's hard."

A quiet voice came from the darkness of the open doorway, muffled by the racket inside. "Are you waiting for someone to share that bottle with?" A woman's voice.

"No," he said without turning. "Go away."

"Tired of women, Daario Naharis?" She came through the doorway onto the balcony, boot heels thumping softly on the planks, and sat across from him, making combs of her spread fingers to drape her silver-blonde hair across her shoulders like a mantle. "That's perfect, really."

Daario stared, and his lips parted to let out a long soft breath. _Gods. Of all the things I don't need right now, I don't need this most of all._


	2. Chapter 2

_**AN: When I posted the first chapter of this story, I honestly believed I would be finishing it before the start of Season 7. Silly me. I haven't watched S7 yet, but I bet there are already discrepancies. I find myself in the same unenviable position as George Martin himself: the scriptwriters have far surpassed my ability to keep up. Oh, well. Rather than revise this story to fit series canon and storyline, I'm just going to write it as it appeared in my head, and let the reader treat it as an AU.**_

"You drink too much," Daenerys said.

Tyrion waddled to the sideboard, glass in hand, and reached for the bottle there. "I have two talents. I drink, and I know things." He filled his fancy stemmed glass. The bottle hovered over a second one on the table as he looked at her inquiringly; when she shook her head, he set it down .

"You already know what a hangover feels like. I doubt you'll learn anything else from emptying that bottle."

"No." Tyrion set the glass on a table beside his chair and eased up into it, toes hanging above the floor. "But knowing things sometimes leads me to drink." Absently, he touched the pin on his left breast, the one that marked him as the Queen's Hand.

"What else leads you to drink?" She turned partway towards the open window. From here, she could see much of the harbor and the high hills that enclosed it. She could see a portion of the city that adjoined the docks as well: warehouses, ship's chandlers, taverns, brothels.

"Fear," Tyrion said, reaching for his glass. "Remorse. Loneliness. Anger." Its rim paused at his lips. "Boredom. Contentment." He took a deep swallow. "Thirst." He set it back down.

Was he in one of those places, drowning his hurt? Was he already losing himself in another woman's embrace? She hoped so. But it had been cold and tactless of her to suggest he would, only a moment after he had declared his love for her on his knees and begged her to take him with her – contemptuous, even. Her inexperience with men had betrayed her there: telling him he would soon find dozens of women to replace her had been intended as a compliment, but the look in his eyes when the words crossed her lips had told her the enormity of her mistake.

"It was the right decision," Tyrion said quietly. "It was wise, and brave."

"It was necessary," she replied. "That's all."

"That as well." He slid down off the chair, picked up his goblet, and headed back to the table. "I once chose love over prudence, when I played the Great Game back at King's Landing." He refilled the glass carefully, not looking her way. "It very nearly cost me my life."

She continued to look out the window, watching the ships busy with their preparations. She looked, too, at the blackened masts pushing up out of the water. How many of the men she had burned alive had been Masters? How many had been just men doing a job? And how many had been slaves, forced to fight for causes they had no stake in, like her Unsullied? "What I told you," she said, eyes on the sun sinking into the bloody sea. "About feeling nothing, just wanting the whole scene to end and be done."

"Powerful rulers often feel the presence of destiny," the little man said, tipping back his goblet. "It makes the bad ones feel that anything they do is right, regardless of consequence. To the good ones, it imparts a longer view. This was only the first time for you, I'm afraid. It won't be the last."

She turned half toward him. "It wasn't the first time."

"Oh?" He paused with the glass at his lips. "You spurned the entreaties of another man?"

"Yes." A moment later: "My brother." She watched Tyrion's face blank. "He was on his knees too. And the pleading in his voice was far more urgent."

Tyrion stood frozen, waiting. Daenerys had never mentioned her brother to him before. She thought he might have heard the story from Jorah, but apparently not.

She turned back to the window and went on, "He was good to me when we were little. It was only when he got obsessed with the idea of reclaiming the throne that he changed, became impatient and hurtful and uncaring. He'd get angry about something and hurt me – he never struck me, but he liked to twist and bend my arms until I cried. He called his little fits of temper 'waking the dragon.'" She looked unseeing at a point over Tyrion's head. "And when I became old enough to interest a man, he sold me without a second thought. He told me he'd let forty thousand men have me if it would buy him an army.

"He gave me in marriage to a Dothraki warlord – a 'savage' and a 'killer,' he called him - in return for his support, a deal brokered by a man in Pentos still loyal to my family. I think Magister Illyrio believed he had arranged an alliance sealed by marriage, but my brother was too arrogant to think of a horse nomad as an equal. He thought he was buying Drogo's support." She shook her head. "As if any Dothraki would turn sellsword for a woman, let alone a Great Khal.

"After the wedding, Drogo took his khalisar east, to consult with the oracles of the Dosh Khaleen about the coming war. In his mind, he was already acting on his part of the agreement. But apparently my brother expected us all to just jump into ships and sail straight to King's Landing." She shook her head again. "He thought giving orders to servants and seeing them obeyed taught him all he needed to know about being a king. He could never have led an army or ruled Westeros. If someone had handed him a crown and set him on the Iron Throne, he would have been dead or imprisoned in half a year.

"Magister Illyrio urged Viserys to stay in Pentos until our return, but my brother didn't trust Drogo enough for that. I was his only asset. If the Dothraki disappeared with me, he would have nothing else to sell. So he trailed along in my new husband's khalisar, while Drogo and the rest of his people took their measure of him." She paused, then went on, "He was pompous and condescending, and tried to treat everyone he met as if they were his hirelings. He couldn't even sit a horse, so he rode in a wagon like the cripples and children, and thought himself privileged, oblivious to the contempt of the Dothraki all around him. He quickly became irritated at the length of the journey and being put off when he pressed for his reward, growing more sullen and insistent as time went on.

"I became with child before we reached the Sacred City, which I think frightened him. He had given me to another man, but I don't think he had realized that meant losing control of me. After the heart-eating ceremony, when the Dosh Khaleen declared that my son would ride the world, he knew he was being pushed aside, and decided he was tired of waiting.

"He burst in on us during the feast that night - drunk, or perhaps mad at last. He was wearing a sword – in the Sacred City, where carrying a weapon is forbidden on pain of death. He drew it, and touched my belly with the point and threatened to carve my baby out of me if Drogo didn't give him what he was owed." She looked down. "My husband promised him he would do exactly that, and that soon Viserys would wear a crown of gold that men would tremble to behold. My brother should have known better than to think he'd really given in – only a blind man could have missed the murder in his eyes – but he lowered his weapon and stepped back.

"The Khal's bloodriders seized him and took his sword. Then they forced him down and held him on his knees while Drogo tossed a handful of gold chains into a kettle over the fire. I would never have guessed that a campfire could be hot enough to melt gold, but there was some black stone burning among the logs that made it too hot to stand close to. Viserys came to his senses then, and realized what he'd done, and what was about to happen. He called to me to stop them, pleading, in a child's voice I hadn't heard from him in years. Do you know what I felt?"

"Nothing?" He said uncertainly.

"Impatience," she replied. "He was vain and foolish and weak. He wouldn't have learned from one lesson. If my brother had been spared death for threatening the life of the Khal's wife and child that night, he would have done something more outrageous later, and Drogo would have ended up killing him anyway. Why not now, I thought, before he did some real harm? Just get it over and done? So I stayed silent and watched my husband pour the gold out over my brother's head and listened to his screams. I watched him die and be dragged out like a sack of garbage. I don't even know what happened to his body. I never asked."

 _If I look back, I am lost._ Daenerys stepped to the table and filled a goblet. "The journey we start tomorrow will take us to rendezvous with the Tyrells and the Dornish fleet, and then to Westeros. What do you suppose might go wrong?"

"Much," said Tyrion, emptying his goblet.

She refilled his glass, hers still untouched. "Then, shall we review the plan?"

-0-

"Not a bad costume," Daario said, looking the woman over: another whore masquerading as Daenerys Stormborn, a popular attraction in brothels all over Slaver's Bay since her rise to power. Her skin was light, though not like Daenerys's; probably from one of the Free Cities, he thought. Silver-blonde hair exactly Dany's shade, and braided behind her head in a similar fashion; face thinner and a bit older. _And which of my drunken associates thought_ _this_ _a clever idea?_ His eyes dropped to the long blue riding jacket. "The outfit is a bit dated. The breeches and boots are all right, but she hasn't worn that coat since we came to Meereen."

She smiled, dark eyebrows flickering. Her eyes were blue, but without the violet tinge that appeared in Dany's when she was in a certain mood. "That's all right, so long as they think of her when they see it."

"The hair is perfect, though, the best I've seen. Other girls never seem to get the color right. Where did you get the dye?"

She lifted the long silver mantle from one shoulder and let it drop. "No dye, I was born with this. It seems a Targaryen must have dallied with a tavern wench in my pedigree sometime before the Fall. He still puts in an appearance every few generations. Great-grandmother had the full kit, according to my mum – pale skin, silver hair, violet eyes, all of it."

 _Did she pick up stewpots from the fire without burning her hands, as well?_ He grunted. "Listen. I hope you've already been paid, otherwise you're wasting your time here. I really didn't want company."

"I've made so much money since yesterday noon, I'm tired of it," she said. "Every merchant, sellsword and caravaneer in Meereen wants to fuck the Queen, it seems. I thought sharing a table with the man who's actually fucked the Queen would buy me a little rest." She added, meeting his eyes, "Especially tonight."

Daario scoffed. "What do you know about it?"

"Only what everyone knows. You laid the heads of your partners at her feet so you could give the Second Sons to her. You killed a man in single combat to win a smile from her. And sometime after she began her rule here, she let you into her bed. But now she's sailing off to claim her kingdom, and you're staying in Meereen. And you're not with her on her last night here, so…" one of her hands had been under the table since she had sat; she raised it now. The stems of two goblets were gripped between her fingers. "Mine. A bit fancy for this grog shop, but then so's Arbor red. Do they stock it just for you?"

"They do." He took a deep breath and let it out in resignation, and drew a penknife from his pocket. She smiled and placed the glasses on the table as he set to work on the bottle's seal.

-0-

Theon sat naked on the side of the bed while Milli knelt between his spread knees, fingers combing through his pubic hair. Though he felt like crawling away and hiding, his face and ears did not redden; shame had become such a constant part of his life that mere embarrassment had no place in him. He silently endured the girl's close examination of the inch-long stub Ramsey had left of his manhood, searching her face for her reaction.

"This isn't so bad," she said. "Your helmet is gone, and most of the shaft. But I'm guessing you can still make your water standing up. And…" His thighs and buttocks twitched as she cupped his shriveled stones in her hand. "He didn't take these. That's important. The Unsullied make do with far less. Most of them have voices like girls, but they hunger for a woman's touch, and they're eager to learn how to make us happy." Milli placed her hands on top of his thighs to brace herself as she rose to her feet. She stood looking down at him. "You never undressed me," she said softly.

He hadn't. She had helped him out of his own clothes often enough if she was already undressed; if she hadn't been, he would pull off his own while she disrobed. Theon had been neither patient nor gentle with the girl, and had often taken her with most of her garments still on. "No," he said.

She said nothing, just watched him. He rose, a bit unsteadily, and faced her with no more than a forearm's length between them. When he reached for her, she closed her eyes and let a soft breath escape her lips.

-0-

"The dwarf is tainting us with his bad habits," Grey Worm said as he held the goblet to Missandei's lips. He tipped it, and she smiled at the taste of the fragrant wine.

They were clothed again, lying on a chaise wide enough for two. He had seemed unselfconscious in the water as he held her. But, both dressing and undressing, he had turned away from her to take off his breechclout and put it on again. _Small steps,_ she told herself.

She took the vessel from his hand and touched the rim to his lips in turn. "I don't know if I would ever have seen your smile, had he not talked you into taking your first glass. Though I could have done without the jokes."

"I was afraid of you." He took the glass and set it down on the small table beside the divan on which they lay. "I still am."

She lightly touched the healing scar of the wound dealt him by the Sons of the Harpy. "And what do you have to fear from me?"

"Fear of disappointing you. I can't expect to impress you with the way I handle my spear."

Was there a double meaning to his words? She wondered. The Captain of the Unsullied was not a subtle man, though she was certain that his thoughts ran deeper than he generally let on. She said carefully, "That isn't what drew me to you."

"No," he said. "But I don't know what did. Or what I need to do to keep you. That makes me afraid."

Missandei turned and brought a thigh across his hip, claiming him. "Let me make you a promise," she said. "If you are ever in danger of losing me, I'll tell you, and why. I may even offer a suggestion for doing something about it." She added, "If that wouldn't offend your manly pride."

"I have never had that sort of pride," Grey Worm said, and pulled her closer. "And I have never felt more like a man than when I am with you."

-0-

"The problem is one of supply," Tyrion said. He and Daenerys were standing at the rail of her balcony, looking down at the darkly shining harbor. "Armies generally provision themselves by taking what they need from farms and communities where they camp or along their route – often at swordpoint."

"I can't do that," she said.

"No." He sipped from his goblet and set it on the stone rail. "You are coming to Westeros as a liberator, not a conqueror. The Breaker of Shackles, returning proper governance to the Seven Kingdoms after years of war and uncertainty." He rested his forearms on the rail – with some stretching, since it was as high as his shoulders - and stared at the lights of the ships. "That won't be an easy sell. Your army is mostly foreigners who don't even speak the language. It will be all too easy to paint them as invaders. And the leaders of your battle fleet are Ironborn, pirates whose raids along the coasts and river towns of Westeros are legend. You cannot despoil your own subjects, like some petty lord come to seize what he can in the confusion of war."

His young queen rested her hands on the rail. It seemed to Tyrion that her gaze lingered on the dockside taverns below them. "I have gold," she said. "We can buy what we need."

"Certainly," he said, "but not in Westeros. The people have suffered years of loot and pillage, burned fields and slaughtered livestock. I doubt many of them can still properly feed themselves, let alone anyone else. What they have left, hidden under the floorboards or buried in the woods, they won't likely sell at any price."

Daenerys cast a doubtful eye upon him. "You might have brought this up earlier."

"Each crisis in its own time. You had enough to occupy your attention. There are solutions. It's just a matter of choosing between them."

"Solutions. Such as?"

"Buy what we need from the Free Cities. You'd need to detail ships to bring it here, and other ships to guard them on the journey." At her smile, he said, "What?"

"Just enjoying the irony. Ironborn tasked with protecting shipping from pirates."

"From Euron Greyjoy, even, if he's given up the idea of making you his queen. But I think Yara might actually enjoy meeting her dear uncle on the high seas in an even match." He went on, "Convoying supplies across the Narrow Sea would reduce our options in the coming war. Our strategy would no longer include the ability to fight and move all our troops by water. We must divide our forces, else where we land is where we will march from."

"Then it's good we won't have far to march. I'm told you can see Dragonstone from the highest towers of King's Landing."

"Not quite," he said, picking up his goblet again.

Daenerys turned her back to the view and rested her backside against the rail. "You said we had options to choose from."

"Yes," he said, "courtesy of our friend Varys."

A bird had arrived from Dorne earlier in the day: the Tyrells and whoever was ruling Dorne these days had pledged their support in the defeat of the Lannisters, though the 'Sand Snakes' had stopped short of supporting Dany's claim to all the Seven Kingdoms. Danaerys said, "The Tyrells helped depose my family. Since the usurper died, they've switched sides with every change in the wind. And what's left of the Dorells just murdered their own king, and his son. How far can I trust them, really?"

"We can trust them as long as you have something they want. They need you if they're to get their revenge, so they won't move against you until my sister is deposed, at least. Though I don't doubt The Thorn is already plotting." Tyrion replaced the goblet on the rail and went on, "Highgarden is a cornucopia. They could easily provision our forces if we could guarantee safe passage – no small feat, but possible." He hesitated.

"But gold isn't what they'll want in payment," she said. "Is it?"

"They'll ask for the usual, I'm sure. Position, privilege. A seat or two on the Small Council." He hesitated again.

"What else?" She waved a hand at his uncomfortable expression. "I know well enough. Didn't that woman marry her granddaughter to three pretenders? She has a grandson, I suppose."

"Several. The oldest is a bookish, clubfooted fellow named-"

She shook her head. "It's too soon for that."

"Agreed." Tyrion said slowly, "The Lannister troops will be just as hungry as ours, perhaps more so. But the Royal treasury is empty, and I'm sure Cersei won't spend the family fortune on food and fodder. No doubt Olenna is rubbing her hands together at the prospect of seeing a Tyrell cloak slipped over your shoulders. But she may be less inclined to haggle the price of our provender with the Lannister army sharpening its swords in front of her gates."

"So, we contract – short term – with Andalos and the Flatlands, and so buy time as well as food." Dany turned back to the rail. "Do you really think she'll march to the Reach instead of reinforcing King's Landing, with us so close?"

"If she doesn't feed her army, it won't fight for her," Tyrion said. "If she doesn't know that, my brother certainly does."

Queen Daenerys stared off into the dark. "I may not be able to spare him."

"I know." He lifted his goblet and was disagreeably surprised to find it empty. "That you would even consider it means a great deal to me." Unspoken between them was the fate of House Lannister after a Targaryen was once again on the Iron Throne. His family had much to answer for, but the chief architect of the plot to steal the crown was already dead, by Tyrion's hand. Cersei, he was sure, would flee Westeros or kill herself before surrendering the Iron Throne. If Dany could find it in her heart or her plans to spare the life of her father's murderer…

As if reading his thoughts, she said, "Casterly Rock is yours, if it still stands when this is over."

"I doubt I should have time to visit it," he said. "The kingdom is a shambles. The Queen's Hand will be very busy for years after you mount the throne." And if Jaime was still alive then, and the old rules and customs not swept away, it was he who would sit at the head of the table in the Lion Hall. Only his oath to the Kingsguard had taken that right from him; whatever Jaime Lannister might be after the War, he would never be a member of Dany's Queensguard, which meant that the Lannister ancestral home would be his inheritance once more. And Tyrion much doubted he would be welcome there.

-0-

"She commanded us to seal the temple door after her, lock her in alone with all those beasts," Daario said. "She had to remind me that I'd sworn to obey her, because all I wanted to do was steal her a horse and run like the wind with her."

"You wouldn't have gotten more than a few miles," the woman said. "Not chased by Dothraki."

He made no answer. "We did what she wanted," he went on in a lower voice. "Then we hid and watched. I kept trying not to imagine what she was doing in there, unarmed and surrounded. What _they_ were doing with _her._ Mormont was afraid for her too, I could tell, but I don't think it even crossed his mind to disobey her.

"Then we saw the smoke coming out of the peak of the roof, almost instantly turning to flame. The whole roof was ablaze in seconds. She had fired the temple, taking with her all those bastards who had stolen Drogo's men and left her when her husband died.

"I knew it was already too late, but I started to leave our hiding spot. Mormont clamped a hand on my shoulder, stopping me. 'Wait,' he said. I turned, wanting to smash his face in – he'd said he loved her, wasn't he even going to _try_? But then I saw the way he stared at that pyre. The fear was gone from him, and his eyes were full of … _expectation._

"A crowd gathered all around the burning temple. It seemed crazy, but it was if they were all waiting for something too. That was when the doors we'd jammed shut burned off their hinges and collapsed. It was like opening the damper on a blacksmith's furnace. The flames shot up to the clouds, and you could feel the heat from where we were, a hundred yards away. The doorway was yellow-white, too bright to see into. But I saw something in that furnace blast. A shadow moved, came forward, through air that looked hot enough to melt steel." Daario took a deep swallow from the goblet. "It was _her_. Naked as the day she was born, and untouched by the fire. She stood on the stoop in front of that door, the draft lifting her hair, just looking us all over like _she_ was waiting for something. Gods, she was beautiful. And terrifying. And all the Dothraki, men, women and children, fell to their knees, even the ones on the other side of the temple who couldn't see her. There's a prophecy among them, about a mythic warrior born in flame who'll lead them to victory in a battle against the greatest foe the world has ever seen. I'd never heard of it, but I guess she had." He shook his head and reached for the bottle, surprised to find it nearly spent. He filled his glass and topped off hers, and it was empty. "I don't usually go on and on about old lovers to another woman."

She looked meaningfully at the empty bottle. "After downing most of that, I'm just glad you're still saying 'she' instead of 'you.'"

"I know who I'm with." He raised his glass a hand's with off the table and set it down again. "Actually, I don't. What's your bloody name?"

She gave him an odd little smile. "Do you want the one I give my clients, or the one my parents gave me?"

"Neither, if you're going to be that way about it."

"They're the same," she said, lifting her glass. "Alluquere."

He frowned. "What sort of name is that?"

"Foreign." She held the glass to her lips.

Daario stared over the rim of his glass and the rail to the harbor, at the fleet which would be gone with the morning tide. "I can say without shame or conceit that I have fucked a great many women, every one I really wanted. I know how to get close, to gain their trust and their interest. By the time I shared her bed, I thought I knew everything about her that was important to know. But standing among those thousands of people with their noses in the dirt, seeing her wreathed in flame and looking down at me as if she was looking right through me, seeing me in a way no woman ever had, I realized I didn't know her at all."


	3. Chapter 3

"I'm quite sure that, whatever I said, it must have been misinterpreted." Tyrion marched glumly up the dark street toward the upper-class districts. "Such a mercurial temperament ill suits a proper ruler."

"You went too far," said Rago, the Dothraki holding the torch aloft beside him. "Even a slave girl would have gotten angry with you. Not that it would have mattered then," the man went on. "Sometimes they're better when they're angry."

"I was only trying to console her," the little man said. "I don't see why I should be punished for that."

"Well, ordering you off seemed to make her feel better, so it worked." He hesitated at a crossroads, trying to pick a turn. A small group of merchants spied the tall dark horseman and quickened their steps as they passed by. The Dothraki ignored them, turning down the street the men had just come down. "And being ordered to spend a night in a whores' den doesn't seem like much of a punishment. You really haven't been with a woman since you came here?"

 _There isn't one person in this place you're leaving behind that you care about, is there?_ She had asked, storm clouds gathering on her face. "No. The only women who've ever shown an interest in me are whores. And I rather lost my taste for whores in Westeros."

"I don't know which idea is stranger," Rago said. "Paying for a woman, or paying to use her just once."

Tyrion eyed the tall man who had been attending Dany on some business of the horsemen when she had turned suddenly upon her Hand. "You seem rather different from the usual run of Dothraki, if you don't mind my saying." _Starting with the fact that you speak Common and Valerian._

The man scoffed. "More 'civilized,' I suppose?" He slowed, for which Tyrion was grateful: even though the tall Dothraki had seemed in no hurry, Tyrion had been hard-pressed to keep up. "When I was just starting to grow hair around my sack, I went out on my very first raid – just a small troop of us, stealing horses from a village. It should have been easy, a way to break in the boys and give them a taste of blood and loot. The damned sheep used _slings_ , of all things, and I took a rock in the side of my head, knocked me right off my horse. My brothers left me for dead. When I woke, I was a prisoner. A slave."

He shifted his grip on the torch and pointed out a turn. "The people they sold me to weren't so bad, for sheep. They tried to teach me their ways, and as hard as I resisted it, some of that nonsense soaked in. When I escaped and rejoined my khalisar, years later, I had a lot to prove. I had to learn to fight like a demon and take many women and horses, far more than I needed, to convince others that my stones weren't softened just because I knew how to read and sometimes talked before I fought. That is how I became Kogo's bloodrider, before I became _hers_."

It seemed that a great many of Queen Daenerys's closest people were former slaves: Missandei, the Unsullied, Varys, even himself and Jorah – though Grey Worm and Missandei's nostrils flared when he referred to himself as such – and now this young stallion. Tyrion wondered if the Breaker of Shackles could tell somehow, or if having been slaves was something that drew people to Dany and bound them to her service. As they turned onto the alley that ended at the Garden of Joy, Tyrion asked, "Rago. What do you expect you will find across the Poison Water?"

The big horseman smiled at the doors at the end of the alley. "Loot. Glory. Fun. Something different. I like different things. Maybe that's something the sheep put into me."

"And perhaps death?"

He shrugged. "A man can't be worried about that. He'd never have a chance to live," he said. "Just so long as I'm properly burned when I die."

Tyrion, like most Westerosi men, had heard tales of the opulence of Eastern bawdy houses; the Garden of Joy fit his imaginings quite nicely – as regarded its size and décor, at least. The women were another matter. The ones in the garden fronting the big house drew aside at his approach, some averting their eyes from him, others staring with less-than-friendly expressions. In the main parlor, the young girls in attendance clasped their hands and studied their slippers, while the madam looked at him rather like his nanny when she first caught him staring at a serving girl's arse.

Nevertheless, her voice was courteous and professional. "Greetings, my lords, to the Garden. What is your pleasure?"

"My pleasure waits for me in my tent," Rago said. "I'll be back for you at sunrise. If you're too drunk or worn out to walk down to the dock, I'm to throw you over my shoulder like a sack of feed and carry you."

She turned to him. "And you, my lord?" She asked, her voice strangely neutral.

"My pleasure is to serve the queen, who sent me here to farewell Meereen. Wine," he said. "I don't care what, so long as it's fit to drink." He took a deep breath. "And a selection. Again, no preferences, so long as they're pretty."

She gave him a troubled look and left. A girl barely past puberty arrived shortly after with a goblet and a small decanter. Her eyes never dropped below the top of his head as she served him. During the second glass, he tried to strike up a conversation, but she could be coaxed to give no more than one- or two-word answers. When he pressed her for a longer comment, she shivered and nearly dropped the tray. Tyrion took the decanter and dismissed her, perplexed.

The madam returned. "Please accept my apologies. Normally, a client has his pick of hostesses, but we are having … difficulties. But if it please my lord, we have available a young beauty recently come to our service, who is will- who is free to serve your needs."

The hour was late, and the city was full, both from the fleets in the harbor and from the caravans come to provision the ships. Tyrion imagined that the whores of Meereen must be very busy of late. "Pretty, you say?"

"A goddess, my lord. Her face and form will not disappoint, I swear to you."

He sighed and set aside his goblet. "Lead on then."

The madam conducted him to the staircase. He eyed the steps. "I don't suppose you have rooms on the ground floor."

"Only storerooms and servants' quarters, my lord," she said. "Nothing worthy of the Queen's guest."

It was a common arrangement in such places, guaranteeing the customers privacy and limiting their chances to slip out without paying. He sighed again and began to labor up the stairs, hanging on to the ornate railing nearly even with the top of his head. Pausing at a landing halfway up, he looked down between the stiles and caught one of the young serving girls staring up at him with undisguised hatred. She dropped her gaze and hurried off.

The madam conducted him down a series of halls, traffic growing sparser as they went on until they reached a section that seemed deserted. Tyrion's legs were weary and his sense of direction befuddled by the time they reached the door at the end of a blank hallway. "Pleasant eve, my lord," said the madam, opening the door just wide enough for him to enter, and shutting it firmly behind him.

Tyrion was pleasantly surprised by the room. Having been conducted so far from the salon, he had expected to end up in some mean little soldier's crib, but the place was roomy, warm, and as ornately furnished as any of Littlefinger's guest suites, with draperies and sculpture and the glitter of fine-wrought things.

The girl standing beside the bed was finely wrought as well: dark-haired and lovely and beautifully attired, she had stood so still as he entered that at first glance he had mistaken her for sculpture. Her face was a mask, watching him without expression. When the door closed, she said in faintly accented Common, "You don't look the way I expected."

"You thought I'd be taller?"

"Better-looking." She made a small gesture toward the bed. "Well. How do you want to do this? Shall I undress? Do you have a position in mind? Or would you like to drink some more before you decide?"

Tyrion looked to a small side table and spotted a decanter and goblets much like the one he had abandoned in the parlor. "I think wine would make for a good start." When she made no move to serve him, he waddled to the table and poured his own. "I must say, you are the most unaccommodating whore I have ever done business with. Do you imagine a dwarf's gold is harder to spend than any other sort?" Feeling mean, he added, "If it's my equipment that concerns you, you'll soon see that I am made as other men."

"I'm not worried about how yellow your coin is, or how big your cock," she rejoined. "That isn't why we drew lots to see which of us would be forced to service you."

It wasn't often Tyrion was at a loss for words; in the presence of tyrants and dragons, rallying troops at the walls of King's Landing, or standing in court under sentence of death, he had always had something to say – sometimes even the right thing. But now he felt his chin sag to bump the rim of the goblet, his mouth open and empty, his mind blank and echoing with the woman's words.

"Apologies, my lord," she said, sounding decidedly unapologetic. "My behavior dishonors the house. I shall do my best henceforth to please you, whatever way I can." She approached and knelt before him. The gesture of submission might have been more effective, he thought, if she hadn't still been taller than he was. And more convincing if she hadn't been staring into his eyes the whole time like a cat about to pounce on a mouse.

He turned from her, to a small round table flanked by a pair of stools. "Drink with me then. Perhaps if you keep me diverted long enough, I'll pass out, and you won't have to endure my touch at all."

-0-

"'The interpreter you stole from Kraznys will remain, to be sold … to the highest… bidder.' Grey Worm's nostrils flared. "Everyone who heard his voice knew he meant to take you for himself. And that he had other uses for you than your skill with words." Missandei's head rested on his shoulder; he ran his fingers through her hair. "I have never killed a man in anger. But standing over him kneeling in the dust, listening to him beg for his life with my hand on my knife, was very … satisfying. It took all my willpower not to wipe his friends' blood from my blade on the shoulder of that fancy jacket."

She tittered. "He would have soiled himself."

"He did anyway. You didn't notice?"

"I was watching you."

-0-

"There," Milli said, "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Theon pulled her closer in answer, not yet ready to speak. He lay naked with her on the rude little bed, his breathing and heartbeat slowing. He felt a growing warmth and sense of peace that was different from the release he remembered. She kissed him under the ear, and he shivered. "No," he finally said. "Not at all. But you couldn't have got much out of it."

"Hmh." Her hand covered his where it rested on her hip. She twined her fingers in his, and guided his hand to her pubic hair. "You have all the tools you need to please a woman, you just need to learn how to use them. Your hand is good for more than squeezing teats and getting her wet. And there are things to do with your tongue besides filling her mouth or flicking her nipples." She unlocked their hands, but kept hers atop his, each finger on one of his. She pressed the heel of her hand against the back of his, guiding him downward, and urged the tip of his middle finger into the cleft between her thighs. "Tonight, you'll become a better lover than you ever were when you had a cock."

-0-

"I'm so sorry," Dany said softly, running her fingers through Daario's hair.

He blinked, focusing on the table in front of him, and the two bottles on it. His chin was on the table, and he couldn't seem to lift it. This wasn't the Pyramid. He was in a tavern, he thought, talking. Talking to…

A tendril of silver hair lay across his shoulder, trailing down to the table.

"I know how cruel I seemed. I didn't mean to. You think I chose between you and my throne across the sea, but I didn't. The Seven Kingdoms need a ruler. That is the life I was born and bred for. I have no more choice about filling that role than I have a choice whether to draw my next breath." The fingers massaged his scalp, traced a line from his temple to his ear. "Forgive me."

His head and eyes were heavy, so heavy. The room was darkening. "I do," he murmured. "I did. But it still hurts."

"I know, love. That won't fade soon, but it will fade. You'll rule this city until they learn to rule themselves, and then you'll protect them from themselves and from those who wish them ill. Your days as a rootless man are over. You'll become respected, even admired, a pillar of the city, with statues in your likeness standing in the markets. You'll find other women, even women to love. You'll raise children and grandchildren. You'll be happy. I only hope you can remember me fondly, in time, as I know I will remember you." Her lips touched the back of his neck, and the world was gone.

…

Alluquere withdrew her hand from the sleeping mercenary's hair. She slipped his purse from his belt, poured the coins from it into her palm, and looked at them a moment before putting them back. She picked up her two goblets, the rim of one of which had been coated with a potion formulated to make the partaker sleepy and talkative, and sometimes experience visions, made especially potent when mixed with spirits. She stowed them in her bag and entered the tavern.

Rufus, the Second Sons' third-in-command, spied her from his table and motioned her to him. He said, "How is he?"

"Still hurting. But he'll mend."

"Why didn't he take you to a room?"

"That isn't what he wanted from me."

"Where is he now?"

"Still out on the balcony, sleeping off two bottles of Arbor red."

"Two bottles usually has him dancing on the tables, not sleeping on them."

She shrugged and held out her palm. Rufus dropped several coins into it. "How can I get hold of you again?"

She shook her head. "This won't work a second time."

He smiled, showing a gold tooth. "Not for him. For me."

She dropped the coins into her purse. "You can't. I'm leaving the city. Taking a caravan through Y'unkai to Astapor, then catching a ship sailing west." She turned away. "Everyone wants to fuck the Queen. But this isn't where she rules anymore."

-0-

"So." Tyrion drained his glass. "Are dwarves so unwelcome at every brothel in Meereen?"

"The world is full of dwarves," she said, refilling it. "Roughly half of them have cocks. Many of the ones with cocks have money. Any number of them have found welcome here. It isn't your height that makes serving you so burdensome. It's the size of your heart. You see, we've heard the stories."

"Stories? What stories?" Tyrion said, feeling outraged. "Are you talking about those ridiculous tales spread by wandering troupes? The ones that portray my sister as a saint, and her son a martyr, and me some sort of evil mastermind determined to destroy the Seven Kingdoms? That's all complete nonsense. Those people will-"

"No." She gave him a skeptical look. "Whoring is a mobile profession, my lord. Brothels like to rotate the stock, to keep regular customers interested and coming back. Every caravan and army on the march has its followers. Whores travel the length and breadth of the known world, and where we go, we take the stories and secrets that are murmured in our ears." Her eyes met his. "And that is how we know what sort of man you are. A man who betrayed every woman who ever loved him."

It took him a moment to find his voice. "I? _I_ betrayed?"

"Your mother died bringing you into the world and giving you life. Doesn't that seem like something of a betrayal?"

"I was a newborn," he said. "I didn't have the least choice in the matter."

"When you spoke to the queen about it, you sounded as if you were boasting."

"I was pleading for my life and freedom. I-" He stopped. "There was no one in that chamber but the queen and her close advisers. None of them would have whispered the details into a whore's ear."

She _tsk_ ed. "There were plenty of people in that chamber. But apparently a Lannister, even one just released from a slave's chains, doesn't notice servants unless he's looking for someone to give orders to." She touched the rim of her goblet to her lips. "How do you explain what you did to your bride, then?"

"Tysha?" His chest tightened. "What am I supposed to have done to her?"

She gave him a strange look. "You took a fancy to a wheelwright's daughter, a common girl. But she wouldn't spread her legs for coin. So you married her in a sham ceremony, knowing your father could annul it with a wave of his hand. So the story goes. Two weeks later, when you tired of her, you made a present of her to your father's guardsmen, to show her what you thought her love was worth."

His hand clenched around the stem of the goblet. "That … is completely backwards. I fell in love with a common girl and married her, only to be told that she was a prostitute hired by my brother. I refused to believe it, so my father proved it by hiring her to service a barracks full of soldiers. He made me watch. Her hand had so many silver stags in it they were falling through her fingers-"

"Tossing a coin on a woman's belly after you've raped her doesn't make her a _whore_ , Tyrion Lannister!" The girl caught herself, and regarded him. "Is it possible that you're merely the stupidest man on earth, instead of the most evil?" She went on, "She was exactly what she told you. No doubt your father thought different, that any woman who would lie with you must be a whore of one sort or another. It wouldn't have been hard to get your brother to go along with the story. But I wonder what threats he used on her, to force her to submit and play her role?" She refilled his glass, which was mysteriously empty again. "Did she look your way, while she was enduring it all? And if she did, what did she see? I can guess well enough – the face of the man she loved, twisted in contempt as he watched the woman he claimed to love being gang-raped. How hard were you to convince, really? Did you actually doubt your brother when he told you?" She set the bottle down and touched the rim of her glass with her fingertips. "You never asked _her_ for the truth of it, did you? If you had, she might well have lived."

 _What happened to her?_

 _She went where whores go._

"Of course he killed her," the girl said quietly. "After that elaborate effort to cleave you apart, do you suppose he'd give her a chance to approach you ever again? To tell you the truth, and possibly steal back your heart, and turn your hurt and anger on him redoubled?" She raised the goblet. "You killed him, I hear. Too bad it was for all the wrong reasons." She sipped. "And now we come to your mistress, the one you murdered in the bed where you made love."

"She was trying to stick a dagger in my eye!"

"She was trying to drive you away before your father returned from the privy, you fool," she said. "If she'd been trying to stick a knife into your eye, she'd have done it. And why didn't she call out, with your father and his guards just a shout away? Didn't you ever wonder?" She sipped. "It was self-defense for her as well. Freed from your cell, what else but revenge would have brought you to that room, and at that hour?"

"Not for her," he said. "She was the last person I expected to find there."

"It was part of her deal for your life," she said. "As was her testimony. He said he'd have you killed if you weren't convicted. But if you were, he'd arrange your escape." She gave him a little smile. "You really think your brother and the Spider did it all themselves? Your father may have helped only by doing nothing, but you wouldn't have gone free any other way." She took a tiny sip. "He didn't do it for love. He intended to use you as an outside threat to bring Cersei and her children firmly under his hand."

Tyrion's voice shook. "Why should I believe any of this?"

"Why indeed? Why open your eyes when you've got so comfortable walking through life blind?" She regarded him. "That she betrayed is not in question, my lord, but exactly _who_ she betrayed is. You recall how surprised you were when Bronn brought her to you?"

He swallowed. It had been quite late, long past the time men off duty made their selections from among the camp followers. He had sent Bronn out to find him a woman, expecting him to bring back some coarse wench fit only for sucking his cock. Instead… "He told me he took her off an officer."

"Oh yes. He was always eager to show his value to you. But do you really think such a _practical_ man got in a swordfight with a stranger, just to bring you a prettier whore?"

He remembered Bronn's refusal to be his second against the Mountain. The sellsword had weighed the risks against the possible reward, and chosen the safer course. "Possibly not."

"By 'taking her,' perhaps he meant he was walking by a certain tent when he heard a man and woman quarreling, and nearly caught her in his arms when she rushed out. She was followed by the officer, unarmed and half-dressed. The man claimed he'd already paid her and demanded the woman returned or his money back. Bronn showed him six inches of his sword, and the 'ginger cunt' changed his mind."

Tyrion said carefully, "If what you say is true, the only way you could know it is if one of those three told you."

"Or told someone, who told someone, who told me," she said. "It was the officer, of course. Even men sworn to secrecy on pain of death can't help boasting to a properly impressed woman." She gave him a heavy-lidded look. "She was meant for you and no one else that night. They knew you'd send Bronn out for a woman. Your tent was the last on the row, there was only one way he could come. All they had to do was wait by the flap." She watched him as if studying the horizon for an approaching ship. "That little drama was meant to induce you to offer her protection and keep her close."

Tyrion's vision darkened until it was a tunnel whose end was the whore's face. "Who?"

"Who is the last person you would ever expect to send you a whore?" She sipped, watching him over the glass's rim. "Did you never wonder why she would tell you nothing of herself, not even where she came from?" With the glass still at her lips she went on, "She was supposed to do far more than warm your bed. She was supposed to stay close, watch you, report your plans and movements, and if necessary, to kill you. You didn't really think he would send you off to rule in his stead without some sort of leash?"

It would be just like him, he thought. Tyrion was good at the Game, but his father was the master. "He forbade me to take her to King's Landing." But as he said it, he knew the answer.

"And you have always been such an _obedient_ son," she smirked. "What surer way to have you bring her?" She went on, "She played the whore very well for you, I'm sure. At first. But then something remarkable happened."

 _Come away with me,_ she had begged, fear brightening her eyes as he lay wounded after the repulse of Stannis's attack. _Flee across the Sea, leave all this behind. Nothing else matters, not the gold, nothing. So long as we're together._ Plainly she had thought the next attempt on his life would be successful. What had not been plain was the possibility that she might be privy to the assassin's plans.

Softly, almost to himself, he said, "When I came into the room in the Tower, she was calling him in her sleep. Using the pillow name she gave to me."

He jumped when she slammed her glass down on the table, making the liquid inside leap out. "And _that's_ what put the look on your face that made her certain you had come to kill her?" She stood and turned away, stiff with anger. Quietly she said, "She was _asleep_. She had been used night after night by a man who had no end of ways to express his contempt for whores. Do you really think it was _him_ she was calling to in her dreams?"


	4. Chapter 4

Theon woke when he felt Milli move away. She rolled to the edge of the bed and slipped out from under the blanket and put her bare feet on the floor. He almost asked where she was going before he heard the soft cry, and realized it was coming from the other side of the curtained doorway.

"Don't get up," she said softly. "I'll quiet him."

"You have a _child_?"

She scoffed. Smiling, she said, "You didn't notice my teats were a little bigger than you remembered?" She wrapped her undergarment around her waist. "He's nearly weaned, but he'll settle for milk till we get up and you're gone." She lifted the curtain and disappeared. A moment later, the cries stopped, and Milli began cooing, as women do with a babby in their arms.

He rose and pulled on his trousers, tying them as he approached the curtain. When he put a hand on it to pull it aside, she said from the other side, "If you're looking for a place to make water, it's the door on the other side of the hall."

"No."

"Best stay there, then, it's pretty ripe in here."

His nostrils twitched. The man once called Reek had sometimes spent days bound to the crossties in Ramsey's playroom, and gone weeks without bathing; bad smells meant nothing to him now. Theon lifted the curtain and stepped inside. The room beyond was no larger than the one she slept in, and even plainer. More pegs and shelves on the walls held a variety of clothing and other possessions. Far from the doorway stood a wooden crib and a stool. Milli sat at the stool with a toddler at her breast. She must have gotten pregnant as soon as he came here, he thought…

He couldn't see its features, but the child's head was capped with curly brown hair lighter than its mother's. Theon raised his eyes and saw Milli watching him.

 _As many times as I've fucked you, I might have put a bastard into you by now._

He swallowed. "Is… is it mine?"

"He's mine," she said. "And he shat himself in the night. Do you want to watch me clean his arse?"

He backed out and let the curtain fall.

"He's a good boy," she said through the curtain. "More than a little spoiled, I daresay, but that's what comes of being surrounded by women all his life. One of the others would have taken him for me if we weren't all sharing our beds last night. But I knew he'd sleep through till morning if I put a good meal in him."

Theon's head spun. His claim to the Salt Throne had disappeared when Ramsey had sent his cock to his father in a box, because Theon could no longer offer the Ironborn an heir. But the rules of inheritance in Pyke were different from most of Westeros: the children of salt wives were legitimate…

 _No. The lack of an heir is the least of the reasons you're not fit to rule the Ironborn._ "What's his name?"

"Addin. I named him in the manner of my people, not yours. I expect I'll tell him I don't know who his father is. He'll have your girl-pretty looks, that's burden enough, especially in a place like this. He doesn't need an excuse to put on airs besides."

He swallowed. "What if I claimed him?"

"Claimed him?" She repeated, her voice suspicious.

"And you," he amended. "Give you both my protection, and a share in whatever I have."

"My lord," she said, her voice edged with sarcasm, "You're going off to war in the morning. I can't go with you. You'll never be back. Like as not, you'll be in the arms of your Drowned God before this little fellow learns to walk. If not, well, now that you know you can still please a woman, you'll be back to your old ways before long, amusing yourself with whores and tavern wenches and tradesmen's daughters."

"No."

"Yes. You'll need to, to prove to yourself you're still a man." She said thoughtfully, "You've changed. It's hard to say whether the change is better. Before, I wanted you, and I wanted you to take me away, but I didn't like you much. You were so cocky and arrogant. I liked that and hated it at the same time, somehow. I knew you were using me, but I was trying to use you as well. But it seems I badly overestimated the worth of my charms. Now … I think it would be easy to get a promise from you, but I don't want anything you could offer me." She came out, still naked from the waist up, nipples shiny with moisture. "You don't look ready to go back to bed. Dawn isn't far off. Let's get you dressed and put a proper meal into you before you go, what do you say?"

…

"I wish we could be together on the voyage," said Missandei.

"My place is with my men. Yours is by her side." Grey Worm put on the last of his garments, adjusting the hem of his jacket. His movements were crisp and precise, very unlike his slow, gentle, almost hesitant manner when he touched her. He was the Captain of the Unsullied once more, self-assured and single-minded, a man of wood and steel.

What was she doing with him, really? Why not another man? Why not any other man?

But then his gaze fell on her, and he was hers again. "But whenever duty allows, I will be looking toward her ship, trying to catch sight of you."

Though true dawn was still an hour off and the windows were still dark, the room brightened around her. "I don't know if I will be able to find your ship among so many. But I'll wear the brightest colors in my chest when I come up on deck, so you can find me."

…

Tyrion said, "You are entirely too good at this game."

The girl smiled as she shook the cupful of dice. "I am skilled in all manner of ways to separate a man from his coin." She cast its contents gently across the table.

A bit blurry from drink, Tyrion counted the dots revealed on the little cubes of bone, unsurprised to see that they added up to the precise number required to win. He pushed another copper coin across the table to the small pile at the girl's hand. "Are you sure you're not cheating somehow?"

"I'm quite sure that if I am, you'll never catch me." She returned the dice to the cup and passed it to him.

He picked up the cup and rattled its contents: they sounded different somehow than when she did it. "You're a witch of some sort, aren't you? Do you worship the Red God?" When she gave him no answer he went on, "What's your name?"

"I have many," she said. "Whores often do. I've forgotten the one my parents gave me. What would you like to call me?"

Tyrion spilled the dice cup, letting them tumble out: the number matched her last roll. She pushed the copper back to him. He met her eyes. "Sansa."

Her brows gathered. "Your second wife, the highborn one? You'd give her name to a whore?"

He refilled his glass. "I just wanted to see if you recognized it. You didn't include her in your list of aggrieved women." The liquid overflowed before he stopped pouring and set the bottle down. "She had more than one reason to hate the Lannisters, and the marriage was not by her choice, but I think even she would say I treated her kindly."

"She didn't love you." She took the dice cup in hand. "Perhaps that was her salvation. Go again?"

…

Varys gave a gentle smile to the young man who appeared at his doorway. The man who in certain circles was called 'The Spider' had not stated a preference when he had appeared in the brothel's parlor and asked for a room and some companionship, but he knew that a man with a woman's voice and the look of a eunuch would likely be given a boy. In any other of the Seven Kingdoms, preference for one's own sex – if one was a male, at least - was treated very circumspectly even in its brothels, being a crime against the Church, but here in Dorne, attitudes were more enlightened.

In truth, either boy or girl would have suited his purpose. But as a broker of secrets, he kept his own close. And as a backroom manipulator, he trusted almost no one with his personal history, motives, or desires.

"Please, come in," he said. "Shut the door."

The boy complied, but took no more than a step or two inside. He was darkly handsome, as so many Dornish were, curly-haired and clean-limbed. But the way his eyes darted about the room indicated uncertainty. _He's new_ , Varys thought. _But not too new. Very good._ "What is your desire, my lord?"

"Come. Sit," he said, gesturing to a pair of divans flanking a low table set with two glasses and a bottle of good local vintage. "Let us talk a bit. What is your name?"

"Moldova," the young man said. He hesitated, then sat at one end of a couch, sinking deep into the cushions, waiting for Varys to join him.

Varys poured for them both and slid one glass across the table before seating himself across the way. "Moldova. A very strong-sounding name. How old are you, Moldova?"

"Fifteen, my lord."

"And how did you come to be here?"

"I signed a contract, my lord."

It was always about money, especially in this business, Varys thought. He touched the glass to his lips, not drinking, only wetting them. "You seem rather young to be making such a decision for yourself."

"My father is gone – not run off, he was a sailor, and his ship disappeared at sea two years ago. I have two younger sisters and a baby brother, born after my father set off. My mother did everything she could to keep food on the table and a roof overhead, but it wasn't enough." He took a nervous sip from his glass. "She borrowed money. Things were better for a while, but it wasn't long before no one would loan her any more, and men began coming to the house pressing for payment. We started having to miss meals, and the landlord threatened to put us out. A woman approached my mother and offered to cover the family's debts with some extra, but she wanted … security for the loan." He looked into the cup. "Her first offer was for my sisters. But I…"

The bald man nodded. As a whore's story, it needed polish, but it was still compelling for being true. He wondered briefly if the procurer prowled the neighborhoods of the destitute looking for opportunities, or if she had arranged the family's troubles to create one. "When will the contract end?"

"When I pay it off. I send money home for my mother to give to the woman, all I can spare, but I have to pay for my room and board here, and my family still needs things…"

Varys nodded again. "And I'm sure your benefactress charges interest." No doubt the boy had been speaking with his coworkers, many of whom had arrived here years before under similar circumstances, and was just starting to realize that there would be no end to his 'contract,' that he would be a prostitute until no one would pay for his services anymore. But before that, his sisters would be old enough to join him in servitude paying the endless debt. He relaxed his grip on the goblet. "How old are your sisters?"

The boy raised his eyes to meet his client's. "Eight and nine, my lord."

Varys touched the rim of the cup to his lips again. "You don't have much time, Moldova."

The boy swiped at his eyes with a knuckle. "Pardon, my lord, I-"

"Stop." Varys leaned forward. With a fingertip, he gathered the moisture from the boy's eye and touched it to his tongue. It had been a very long time since he had tasted tears; they brought back memories best savored in small doses. "Don't call me 'my lord,' Moldova. I'm given that title only as a convenience, no one really thinks of me as a nobleman. I have no House, no lands, no family to carry my name. I have risen high, but only because I have proven myself useful to the powerful time and time again." _As you may._

"What shall I call you, then?"

He leaned back, cup clasped in both hands, and smiled. "Uncle."

…

"It's good to see you eating." Sharing a bench at the kitchen table with Theon, Milli smiled at the fallen Ironborn prince as she bounced her infant on a knee. "Thin as you are, I thought perhaps you'd given up the habit."

"It's the best meal I've had in years." Theon shoveled another big spoonful of eggs and vegetables into his mouth – simple, hearty fare, but it tasted wonderful. He met her eyes. "Everything's good here."

Her smile widened, but she returned her attention to the boy in her lap. "That's the first thing like a compliment you've ever given me. I would have blushed to hear it, once."

A girl appeared at the kitchen door. "Milord, your escort, the Unsullied captain, he's arrived in the parlor."

"I'll take him," Milli said to her. "Off with you."

They strolled down the torchlit halls, seeming in no hurry. Theon said without looking at her, "When everything is settled back home, I'll send for you. Refuse if you like, but if you'll come, you'll share my roof, at least, and the boy will have my name. I swear it."

The corners of her mouth turned up. "Oh you swear it, do you? How grave and determined you sound. Do you have any idea how many oaths and promises a whore hears?"

"I've broken oaths and promises, more than once, and betrayed good people's trust. And paid dearly for that faithlessness." He touched the little boy's hair. "If I live through what's to come, my sister will be Queen of the Iron Lands, and I'll have a home to offer you. If you move, leave word, so I can find you."

She huffed softly and held her child a little tighter. "You won't find us anywhere else, one way or another. I won't make you any promises, Theon, except this one. If we do come to your house, no matter what titles the Dragon Queen lays on you, I'll never call you 'my lord' again."

"I'm sure you'll find something else to call me." He tangled his fingers in her hair, and touched his lips to hers.

…

Varys lay on the soft ornate bed, staring at the ceiling. Beside him, Moldova slept with one hand on the older man's chest. They hadn't coupled, but the old spymaster thought it prudent that anyone looking in should see them together, and had ordered the boy to share the big bed.

Come morning, there would be much to do, and little time. Daenerys might already have left Meereen by now, and the fleets of Dorne and the Arbor were assembling hurriedly, intending to meet her at sea. He would have to be aboard one of the departing vessels if he was to meet his queen. But first, he needed to be sure that she was safe from her 'allies,' and that he would have advance warning of their plans and intentions, schemes and plots.

Fortunately, this brothel had been the final place where he had planned to recruit in Sunspear – whores made excellent spies, when they were properly motivated. But now he needed to travel to Highgarden and extend the network he had already begun there. He judged Olenna Tyrell to be the greater threat, and his preparations there needed to be more subtle and far-reaching.

The boy beside him stirred and rolled closer, still asleep. Varys let out a heavy sigh, gave in, and slipped an arm around him, pulling the boy to him. He sighed again at the almost–forgotten pleasure of simply sharing warmth and contact with another human being. What might he have given as a child for even this much of a show of tenderness? He shook his head. Perhaps it had been better that he had been friendless and alone and self-reliant. This boy beside him, desperate though he was, was still a stranger to true privation. Missed meals were nothing. Submitting to the carnal attentions of strangers was nothing. He had had a good childhood before the sea had taken his father, and he still had a family to love and worry over. It made him soft and easy to steer.

Not that Varys intended him harm, far from it. The harpy who held his promise would be convinced to keep honest books and forego adding to the sum owed. A man Varys could trust would pay regular visits to both the brothel and the moneylender, and if Moldova was clever and cautious, he would be free and well-off before his sisters became women.

Perhaps by that time, Daenerys would have won her way to the Iron Throne. The Seven Kingdoms would be united and prospering. And children would be safe and cared for, not starved or beaten or mutilated or worked to death. It was a pleasant dream.

…

Heavy pounding on the door brought Tyrion blearily out of slumber. "Just a minute," he called, not yet aware of his surroundings or what he had done the night before. His headache awakened before his memory returned or his sight cleared, and he groaned, passing a hand over his eyes. "Gods."

He was lying on a divan in the bedroom suite's parlor. He stirred, and felt a weight on him. The girl had fallen asleep sitting on the floor beside him, her head on his belly. They were both clothed. She lifted her head and met his eyes.

The pounding resumed. "Little man," Rago called through the door, "Are you alive in there?"

"After a fashion," he said, as the whore – if whore she truly was – slipped off him and stood, looking as fresh as when he had first seen her. She went to the door and opened it.

The Dothraki stepped in and looked Tyrion over. "You look like you've been struck by lightning. If I carry you, will you at least try not to vomit on my back?"

"I'll walk. Just give me a moment to gather myself."

The girl knelt and fussed over him, straightening his clothes and finger-combing his hair. He was nonplussed by the attention until he realized it must be for Rago's benefit. Let it not be whispered that the Garden of Joy failed to give its customers full satisfaction, he thought. With her face a double handwidth from his, he said softly, "Did we?"

"Hardly," she answered. "You were far too drunk, and I wasn't nearly drunk enough." She placed her forearms on his shoulders and touched foreheads. "Perhaps you're not the monster you're made out to be. But you're a wretched creature nonetheless. You should devote yourself to becoming a better man. You've the potential for it, I think."

"Your concern for my future is touching," he said. "First I shall devote myself to winning the coming war. Then, perhaps I will have time for other things."

Her eyes locked to his. "Tyrion. Don't trust her."

"What?" He blinked. "The queen?"

"Not the one you're sailing to Westeros with. The one she intends to push off her father's throne."

"Trust Cersei." He scoffed.

Her voice dropped further. "You love her. You have since you were little, even though you knew how futile and perilous it was. You tried to help raise her children when their father couldn't, to make them good people – and succeeded, except for the oldest, the one shaped by his mother into a vessel for the family ambitions."

Her fingers laced at the back of his head. "It would be easy to pity her now. Family gone, children dead, nothing left to her but that cold throne, a shattered kingdom, and a fading love affair. And that dark prophecy still weighs on her."

"Prophecy? What prophecy?"

"She never told you?" She smiled. "Best not to ask then." The smile disappeared. "Her losses haven't made her vulnerable, Tyrion. They've made her harder, colder, more single-minded. Betrayal was always one of her greatest pleasures, and now she has nothing else. Remember that, when next you speak." She kissed his forehead, rose, and guided him to the door.

…

On a dark breezy hilltop above the City, Daenerys found her dragons.

The Unsullied had brought sheep to this hilltop every day since her return and the breaking of the Masters' fleet; thankfully Rheagal and Viserion were grown used to having their kills delivered, and Drogon had established a hunting territory far from his roost, so her subjects were safe even with three dragons at large. Her children were day hunters, generally coming home to sleep when the sun went down, and preferred to spend their nights not far from one another, or from her.

Near the crest of the hill, Dany took a torch from the hand of one of her guards and went on unescorted. She knew that Grey Worm would have objected to her being alone and so far from his protection, but he was with Missandei now, unknowing. And who would dare venture among her dragons to do her harm?

They lay like hillocks on the dark flat expanse. She could feel the air flex and warm from their breathing, and their little squeaks and grunts filled her ears. Viserion was nearest, at a short remove from his brothers. Headstrong and impetuous, he quarreled often with Drogon, and kept his distance when they were grounded. He pressed forward to be petted first. She stroked the pebbled hide of the white-and-red dragon's cheek and neck, thanking the old gods and the new, and the red one as well, that her imprisoned children had been so quick to forgive after their release.

She supposed she had Tyrion to thank for that. The man was so infuriatingly right about things sometimes. She would never have guessed that he possessed the courage and conviction to descend into their underground chamber to unshackle them, to do what she dared not – not out of fear for her life, but out of fear that they would show themselves already lost to her. Instead, they seemed more closely bound to her than ever, even Drogon, who had not shared his brothers' ordeal.

Like a cat, Viserion gave no warning when he was done with petting: he just turned and put his back to her, nearly sweeping her off her feet with his tail, and settled into sleep. She moved on, to the green-and-gold dragon named after her other brother.

Rhaegal always slept between his brothers, sometimes nearer Viserion, other times closer to Drogon, but always making himself a buffer between them. Dany knew she was being superstitious, but each of her children seemed to her to share traits with their namesakes: Viserion was moody and willful, yet ofttimes playful in a way that made it difficult for her to scold him; Drogon was aloof and haughty and domineering, showing affection only for her. She hadn't known her brother Rhaegar, but Rhaegal was temperate and thoughtful and oft played the peacemaker between his two brothers, and it made her think that her father's eldest son would have made a good king. He accepted her caresses as if they were a benediction, and settled back down as soon as she passed on.

Drogon lifted his head to look down on her, regarding her with a little burbling sound. Rhaegal seemed to reply with a series of clicks. The brothers often exchanged sounds in this way, sometimes at length; it wasn't hard to imagine that they were conversing in a language only they understood.

She reached the black dragon's wing, and he spread it on the ground for her like a staircase. It had been long since she could rub the top of his muzzle from a standing position, even with his head resting flat on the ground; to reach his favorite spot, she had to climb. She stuck the torch in the ground and stepped onto the wing. He dropped his head to the ground as she reached his shoulder, and she crawled, in a most un-regal manner, over the broad skull to sit between his eyes. She leaned forward and rubbed the big dragon's muzzle, and was rewarded with a snort of pleasure and a small dark spurt of smoky flame. She looked out over the city below, past the tiny lights of the ships in the harbor, to the faint gray line where the starry sky met the darkly shining sea.

The sun would rise soon. She would board the flagship and sail away on the morning tide, never to see this place again. Her children would follow – at first, at least. But the journey would take them out of sight of land for many days. Big as the slavers' captured ships were, none of them had deck space for a dragon to land on. They would have to stay aloft the whole time, circling to keep pace with the ships' crawling progress without sleep or rest, eating only what they could hunt in the sea. Would they follow her all the way to Westeros, or tire and turn back?

Daenerys had come to this hilltop, on the eve of her departure, to reaffirm her children's bond to her. Hopefully that bond would be enough to draw them out of Dragon Bay and across the Narrow Sea. Or failing that, this would be her final chance to touch them, and to say goodbye.

A small voice told her that it would be folly to continue on if the dragons turned back; even her Unsullied and Dothraki, and the conditional support of Dorne and Highgarden, would not be enough to wrest the Seven Kingdoms from the hands of the Lannisters and the other Great Houses without her dragons to tip the balance of power. But she knew that, once she was on her way home, she would land on the shore of Westeros to claim her throne, no matter how small her chances.

She lurched as Drogon raised his head. _No,_ she thought frantically, _don't fly, I don't have a proper seat, I'll never be able to hang on…_

But the big dragon's wings stayed splayed on the ground; he raised his head further and swung it about, making her feel unbalanced in a way that she never did when she was riding through the sky with him. He pointed his head toward the path leading up the hill, and gave a warning burble to the Dothraki climbing it.

He stopped a fair distance away – out of respect for her, she was sure, rather than caution toward the mansion-sized monster with the arm-long teeth regarding him with suspicious eyes. In Dothraki he said, "Khaleesi, we have some trouble fermenting."

"What is it?" She called down.

"Nothing big, a word from you will settle it. But the word must come from your mouth, not sent." He went on, "The khals are quarreling about who will sail at your left hand. The ship captains already have their orders about that sort of thing, but of course that means nothing to them."

She let out a breath. "Is anyone dead yet?"

"Two by the time I left," he said, "but that may be the end of it. Krogo made it known he was sending me to fetch you."

Drogon rumbled, picking up on her displeasure, and offered the young horseman a warning spurt of flame that passed ten feet over his head. The man held his ground, but dropped to one knee and lowered his eyes. "I've brought a horse for you, Khaleesi. Will you come?"

Dany patted the side of the big dragon's muzzle, and he lowered his head to the ground. Moments later, she was walking down the hill beside the tall Dothraki. "What is your name?"

He had picked up her torch, holding it above their heads to light her path. He shifted his grip on it. "Kadago, Khaleesi. Bloodrider to Krogo … before we became yours."

The corner of her mouth twitched at the polite qualification. Calling black chestnut didn't change the color of a horse's coat, and a pretty speech or two wouldn't change a culture whose roots went back farther than recorded history. She was the Queen of the Grass Sea and all who dwelt there, but her horsemen's everyday loyalty still remained with their tribal chiefs.

He went on, "If it were me, I'd want to sail as far from your sight as I could, at least at the start. If the sailsheep are right, most of us will be at the rail feeding fish for the first half of the trip."

Her smile widened. "You've _spoken_ to sailors?"

"I overhear them. They're a mouthy bunch. Sometimes it's clear their words are meant for our ears. After a while, I stopped giving them the flat of my blade for fear of wearing it out."

The horse Kadago had brought her was a grey mare. In the moonlight, it reminded her of her silver, Drogo's wedding gift, lost so long ago in another life. Her memories of that life were fading. Once, she had longed only to live in peace in a little house with a green door, one she had dwelt in as a child; these days, she could scarcely remember what the inside of it looked like. Viserion's face was nearly lost to her, except for his eyes, though she remembered his voice well, and his words. Drogo was still very much alive in her memory – his darkly handsome looks, his touch, his voice, the sheer _presence_ of him when he was near - but how much of that was real, and how much of it her imagination? And Daario. How soon would she have difficulty recalling _his_ face?

The coming voyage would bear her away from everything she knew, to a home she did not remember. Already, she had been changed so much, so many times. She was so many things, shaped by the needs and expectations of others. When had her life ever truly been her own?

"Khaleesi." Kadago looked at her with concern.

 _If I look back, I am lost._ "I'm fine," she said, straightening in the saddle and wiping her eyes with a finger as they approached the torchlights of the camp. The house with the green door was a dream belonging to someone else; she was a queen and a conqueror, made to sit a throne. "It has just been a very long night."


End file.
